Daylight
by misstook1420
Summary: Awkwardness. Sequel to Firelight. (Warning: Frodo/Sam slash; don't like, don't read :).)


-Title: Daylight  
  
-Author: Misstook  
  
-Rating: PG-13  
  
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.  
  
-Category: Romance.  
  
-Summary: . . . awkwardness. (Sequel to Firelight). In Firelight things "faded to black". (Yes, they *did*; use your imagination, I know mine's rather wild when loose. Now.) This is going to be three chapters long, probably, and follows the events of Firelight. This particular chapter is a bit chopped off at the end, but, then again, is only the first chapter after all, and not a miniature story in itself, I suppose.  
  
-Warning: Contains slash.  
  
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. Freesia is a random OC, please note.  
  
-Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for (constructive, if you please) criticism. Any flames will be digested by my Pet Balrog.  
  
---  
  
Daylight- (Chapter 1/3)  
  
Awkward simply wasn't the word, but he couldn't think of a better one, due to the . . . awkwardness.  
  
Now, Sam had always looked up to Mr. Frodo, even back in his youth when the out of doors was the world, and he couldn't reason as to why Mr. Frodo insisted on staying so cooped up in Bag End all the time. But, Sam had admired his knowledge of old tales, and the like. There simply didn't seem enough room in his own head to contain all of that; the rules of the world of old, bits of Elvish, or ridiculously long names that started with the same letters and *sounded* alike, at that. It had captured his interest, all the same, though.  
  
Lured him in, heedless but eager to understand the ways of those tales. Sam could think of something to *compare* it to, about now, and reproached himself silently.  
  
Awkward.  
  
A decade or so down the road of his life, now passing by the sweetest hours of heat and sunset in the summers of his childhood and sliding swiftly into his tweens, he'd learned to adjust to the rules of *that* new world.  
  
---  
  
It was a pleasant day in near autumn, and he sat on the edge of a field, by a small brown creek, one day. A wistful willow's boughs whispered overhead. He had walked there with Tom Cotton.  
  
Sam liked the Cotton lads, liked to go fishing with them, or talk about idle things, like the weather. Or, on occasion, Hobbiton's quietly circulated gossip, which had become a new part of his tweenage curriculum.  
  
This particular bit of gossip involved a bit of a nasty rumour floating around, regarding a certain Freesia Burrows, and Tom Cotton had been only too eager to aid its circulation, as if with a duty. And Sam wasn't much one for gossiping, but his ears pricked at the alien glint in Tom's eye.  
  
"What about the lass?" Sam had asked nonchalantly.  
  
"Well, Freesia's how old? 'Bout your age, I'd say. And she's got a lot of friends, Sam."  
  
"Well, I don't see as there's anything wrong with that," he'd returned.  
  
"Good friends."  
  
Jolly abruptly fell from a sturdy tree branch above them in time to shoot Sam an obvious look. "She's only been doing favors for anyone who comes within ten inches," he said bluntly, waiting patiently for reaction, permission to let his laughter burst forth.  
  
Sam shook his head, still uncomprehending.  
  
"Samwise Gamgee," said Tom in a silly attempt at severity, "*Do* you know about these things at all?"  
  
---  
  
Awkward, yes. *That* conversation had been a rather awkward one.  
  
One night, later in that same season, Sam had been walking home from the Green Dragon, and the stars had caught his eye, as they often did. Just as they had in his childhood, from within the boundaries of misty tales, or no. He'd stood in the chilly air on a beaten road with hands in his pockets. The air smelled smoky, and decaying, and wonderful; a rich frame for the sky above him.  
  
But, neither childhood sunset, nor the celestial masterpiece hanging above his head, a privilege to see and still painfully out of reach, could compare to daylight.  
  
For, daylight exposed everything in a clear-cut way. Much like the light in Mr. Frodo's eyes within. And it seemed the only kind of light that could expose those substantially. And seeing as they could be searing stars in themselves, the like of which Sam supposed to find in a backwards image of the world's nighttime, or in the depths of the sea . . .  
  
Firelight framed it well.  
  
Awkward, indeed.  
  
---  
  
The day was clear, and sparkling with birdsong. Frost crystallized over the grass along the walk up to Bag End, and Sam's breath came in steamy puffs. He tried to follow them up over the hill, but they withered just as quickly. The circular green door seemed bright and jovial, as if a reassurance of spring soon to come. Sam dearly hoped that it would hurry up. He needed to start planting again. Not merely out of necessity; it was *time* to.  
  
Sam's heart thudded as he slipped past the door, letting it fall shut with a soft click. He didn't want to wake Frodo. Not until his breakfast were ready, at any rate. Bilbo tended to do the cooking, but he wasn't there now, and Sam being just down the Row, it seemed . . .  
  
Oh, Sam knew why he had come. He swallowed denial, half because it would only distract him into wondering. He sighed and, as he was walking through the parlour, realized abruptly that two wineglasses remained set on a low table. He gathered them, wincing at a resonating clink, and continued into the kitchen.  
  
It was then that a brisk knock came from the direction of the hallway, followed soon after by . . .  
  
"Oh, hullo, Sam," Bilbo said cheerily. "Has Frodo dragged himself out of bed yet?"  
  
"Er, no, he hasn-"  
  
"Sam? Is ther-Bilbo!" Frodo blinked at the older hobbit. Sam looked down, carefully studying the hues of the floor, beginning to wonder if his Gaffer might appear next.  
  
Frodo gestured helplessly around the room. "Tookland?" he ventured.  
  
"Ah. I think I'm going to plead that the letter was delivered far too many days late." He smiled suddenly. "It *was* a wedding," he said in an undertone. "Or so I gathered at an Inn along the way."  
  
Frodo laughed. Clear and issuing from his heart. He smiled then, also from his heart. Sam's ears burned faintly at the sound, and then more insistently when Frodo turned his smile to Sam.  
  
Bilbo sighed loudly to himself. "I'll be unpacking all of this then," he said, and quick as a blink, had disappeared back into the smial.  
  
Awkward.  
  
"Sam."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I think we need to talk, Sam."  
  
"What about, sir?" asked Sam earnestly.  
  
Frodo shook his head, sleep-tousled hair becoming more so. Sam reached over and flicked a persistent tendril away from Frodo's eye. Yes, still like strange stars. Still brighter. Daylight did rather accentuate them, too. Sam leaned to press an affectionate kiss to Frodo's nose, but Frodo decided to catch Sam's mouth at the same moment, and after some more awkwardness, it was anything but. When Sam finally reacquainted himself with the taste of Frodo's kiss, and was beginning to devise plans to reacquaint himself with the memory of soft noises that could be mumbled into such a kiss . . . footsteps.  
  
They shot apart. Unfortunately, Frodo nearly knocked over a pot on the counter that surely would have made a racket and then some, which required Sam to catch his arm and pull him back almost as close as he had been before. Bilbo's form lurched into view on the edge of a doorway; Frodo looked at him anxiously and Sam hastily bent to pick up something on the floor that had been shining, perhaps a spoon or . . . a *button*? He held it aloft halfheartedly, as evidence of a sort.  
  
Bilbo swept swiftly through the kitchen to the parlour, not even pausing to glance at them.  
  
Sam let out a breath and eyed the button thoughtfully. Frodo laughed again.  
  
"What *have* you found?"  
  
"I don't rightly know. Well, I mean, I *do*, but, I haven't any notion as why it ended up here . . ."  
  
"Hm. Very interesting. Now. Where was I?"  
  
"Something about a talk that needed having, sir," Sam said, tucking the button away into a pocket.  
  
"Ah. Yes. Well."  
  
They regarded each other for a few moments, quietly. Calmly. Frodo changed the look to a teasing one. Leaning . . .  
  
The front door banged shut again. Frodo gasped at the sound, Sam twitched involuntarily. Awkward again, drat it.  
  
A few seconds later Bilbo materialized in the kitchen once again, smiled briskly. "Lovely day, isn't it?"  
  
Frodo nodded, Sam grumbled agreement.  
  
"Well, I'm going to lock myself up in the study for the rest of the day-no, Samwise, no need to bring me any breakfast, I ate at the Dragon earlier." And with that he disappeared.  
  
"Can we talk yet?" Sam laughed.  
  
Frodo smiled warmly, captured Sam's hand and led him out through the hall and into the parlour.  
  
---  
  
Comfort, finally.  
  
---  
  
-To be continued. Please, review! It is much appreciated! :) 


End file.
